Category: Poetry

At the shore on a Monday
seagulls with orange beaks,
fighting against the wind,
whip up and down the line,
a boustrophedon parade—
the waves shoving their way to shore.
Jimmy Eat World’s “Futures” beckons them
to me,
scoring the ever-forward push of all creation.

It is all connected.
It is all connected now.

Whatever reigns over this moment,
I am a witness.

Up in the distance a plane careens toward the horizon,
itself pushing against the wind
to find its place in the future.
It cuts past the clouds
like the waves that topple rocks
flanking the coast.

Men and women who smoke cigarettes walk
to the shore, their exhaust
billowing and dissipating
into the rushing wind;
planes in the air, smoke in the air.

There will always be exhaust,
until there will not be.
Until then:
the horizon,
the remedy,
the birds.

Get open and wait—
And suddenly the world becomes clear.
Like a sunbeam across a prairie
The atmosphere cracks and shouts a violent hello.
A burning yellow rainbow—
light itself enlightened.
We seek illumination in our days;
we crowd them still with noble desires
of seeing the sunset once again.
Just one more time.

I recently watched Ingmar Bergman’s achingly doleful Wild Strawberries, and one particular part stood out: the poem read by Isak Borg, the lonely old professor, when asked to resolve a lunchtime debate over the existence of God. After some Internet research, I learned the poem is an 1819 Swedish hymn by Josef Olaf Wallin called “Where is the friend I seek everywhere?” – which a helpful blogger translated.

The full hymn is eight stanzas, but here is one English translation of four of them that captures the plaintive yet uplifting tone of the film:

Where is that friend, whom everywhere I seek?When the day dawns, my longing only grows;When the day flees, I still cannot find HimThough my heart burns.

I see his traces, wherever power moves,a flower blooms, or a leaf bends.In the breath I draw, the air I breatheHis love is mixed.

I hear his voice, where summer winds whisper,where groves sing and where rivers roarI hear it best in my heart speaking,and me keeping.

O! When so much beauty in every veinof Creation and life fail,How beautiful must the source be,The eternally True!

This poem can’t resolve the debate over God’s existence, but it certainly favors one side. The film focuses on Borg’s struggle to grasp his life’s meaning and the consequences of his callousness more than questions of faith. But with this hymn on his mind, how can the remorseful professor, at the end of his life, not think about What It All Means?

Those wordsThose three wordsThe end all of every phone callThe start of every time apart from youThe definition of what we areTogether apart, either one is better than beforeSitting in neutral, afraid to say more

Those wordsThose three wordsThey flow like a wave awayCrashing on the dock of the bayWith grace and sometimes misplacementBut I’ve faced my demons of sentimentWe stared off until I won the race

They’re my own prophesy fulfilledThe heart-hole I’ve been coveringThat wouldn’t stay stillThe story of they’re conception:Oscar-worthy, critical receptionBut too sublime to fully realizeToo special for a TV special

Those wordsThose three wordsWe’ve finally met, again and againWould you meet my family and friends?They haven’t seen us togetherNow is the perfect weatherTo say “I love you.”

Those wordsThose three wordsThe bane of my existenceThe thesis of the paper I’ve never writtenThe end of the date I never went onThe kiss goodbye I never got or gave

Those wordsThose three wordsThey end every phone callEvery birthday card, every letter homeExcept mineI can’t send these three little wordsFrom my head to an utteranceIt’s become an inconvenience

What do they mean anyway?I can’t be a rank sentimentalistWith every word I sayNow I’m stealing linesFrom the only things that make sense to meWhere whatever they say, they meanNo ifs, ands, buts, or truths about it

Those wordsThose three wordsMy finale, my comeuppanceThe end of every well-meaning sentenceThey’ve become to me a penance, a nuisanceSomething I’ve unknowingly stood againstOne of these days I’ll learn what love is

Intro. The weather is music to my ears. Crescendos and decrescendos, tension and release. Today started out without a cloud in sight. Pianissimo. It was hot, but things were moving along fine.

As the day went on, the clouds appeared. Then a few more. Then a bigger batch arrives. The orchestra builds on harmonies and nuance. Pretty soon there is a solid overcast. A cadence sets the rhythm of the day, soon to accelerate.

The clouds become more dense, darker in tone. The brass pound out a minor melody, setting the stage for things to come. The strings soon follow, accentuating every chords, dark and deep. The sun is shut out, little by little, note by note, until it is but a faint melody on the wind.

The sun now sets, leaving us no choice but to embrace the storm upon us. The clouds fill with rain, as the tuba drones and the woodwinds swirl the trees wildly. The trumpets sound the alarm. The people run for solace, the snare drum marks their steps. It’s but a matter of time.

I sit inside, secluded from the madness. I have to make it back to my dorm before I get swallowed in the storm. Do I dare take on the beast? I have no choice.

But as I depart; the tension builds unbearably, the clouds and cellos rumbling on in force, the violins screeching blinding light, the percussion drives it to the brink. I can’t go on. I must yield.

Then, the release. The rain sprinkles down, a cleansing wash. The flute sings a glorious song, easing us back into stillness. I allow myself to be overtaken by the tender coat of raindrops. My clothes will be dry again, but now, they need to feel alive.

Imagine: Darkness, accompanied by golden light from surrounding “Narnia” lamp posts. The snow slowly permeates everything in sight, including your face. The path you’re on shines like diamonds and swivels oh so gracefully alongside a sparkling river. Soft piano music dances into your ear, choreographed perfectly with the falling flakes. Now, tell me that God is not with you at that very moment.

Snow is commonly thought of as a metaphor for a sense of renewal or rebirth, but I see it as being able to see our worth. God drops this stuff down on us to show us that we can sparkle like diamonds and are so clean and new if we choose to be. Go outside the next time it is snowing at night and see what happens.

P.S. If you want to experience a living and breathing God, listen to Relient K’s album mmHmm. He is all over those lyrics.

Walking back to my dorm from chapel last night, I saw the coolest image I’ve seen in a long time. A full moon against a dark sky with the slightest shade of the darkest blue you could imagine. Clouds shaped like cotton ball clusters slid by the moon so gracefully. Coincidentally, a Copeland song called “Brightest” was playing on my iPod as I looked up at the sky. The clean, crisp night air refreshed my senses and the whole experience broke through to my soul. The moon shone so brightly that all the beautiful buildings I passed were ever so tinted with a faint light, making the moment seem all the more surreal.

It’s moments like these that prove God’s existence. He is in the colors and the sounds and the smells that invigorate us everyday. These images are always out there waiting for someone to take the time to sit back and look at them. You don’t have to go to Hawaii or the Rocky Mountains to see something spectacular. Just open your eyes a little wider than they’ve been recently and wait to see what happens.